


Calm. Controlled. Composed.

by Sycophantism



Category: Clockwork (Webcomic)
Genre: Be still my shipping heart, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4953145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sycophantism/pseuds/Sycophantism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"People call Bartholomew cold. Franz doesn't see it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calm. Controlled. Composed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello welcome to shipping hell.

He is calm. He is controlled. He is composed.

Those aren't words people would usually use to describe Bartholomew, but they don't know him. Investigating murders all the time will put a strain on anyone. This isn't the first time they'd stood side-by-side and said goodbye to a co-worker. Lots of people transferred. Most people want to try and divert the chaos, rather than stand in its wake and try to make sense of the shards left behind. 

Even more people rather just avoid the chaos altogether.

Sometimes, Franz will catch him when he thinks no one was watching; eyes heavily lidded and fixed on some point, gaze miles away, mouth in a loose frown. Retrospective, he calls those expressions. No one else takes the time to look at Bartholomew. The expressions disappear when someone approaches, calling his name or jostling him out of the peculiar mood, shoving paperwork in his hands or passing along oral messages. Bartholomew is a co-worker, a soldier, to those people. He's more than that to Franz.

Sometimes, Bartholomew wears those expressions when they're alone in his house. He wears them a lot more often when he thinks he's alone; he's still not used to Franz being there so often. Whenever he catches himself getting lost in thought, or hears Franz enter the room, he snaps himself out of it and goes back to functioning normally. Franz can always tell when he'd interrupted one of those moods, and he regrets it. He wants to see them more often. He wants to know what they are. 

Bartholomew is loud, and irascible, and a little self-absorbed-- not selfishly so, but more in the way that he gets very engrossed in what he's doing (usually talking). He isn't fit to comfort next-of-kin, and he's barely equipped to question them without unintentionally being insensitive. (This bothers him sometimes-- a lot. Enough times, Franz has had to sit and listen while Bartholomew went off about hating every assignment he got that had to do with grieving families. He is clearly not qualified to be the gentle hand they need, he's firm and blunt and he hates it when his abrasive nature hurts those who deserve it the least. Bartholomew never says it, but the guilt of wounding those people weighs heavily on him at times. He expresses this by blaming those who put him in the situation in the first place.) 

That's what those expressions are about, Franz is sure. Bartholomew is thinking. There's a lot to think about in this line of work, but he's really _thinking_. It's a feat that he can remain so controlled in this kind of wild environment, and Franz suspects that these moods are a counterpoint to that impressive composure. 

People call Bartholomew cold. Franz doesn't see it. He's the first to admit that he's biased-- he's felt Bartholomew's warmth like no one else has, as a hand in his own, or lips against his cheek, or breaths on his neck-- but even before they'd come together, he'd never thought of Bartholomew as _cold_. Distant, unresponsive (Franz is painfully acquainted with this side of him and they are still working to dispell those standoffish tendencies when they are alone), but not cold. Because Bartholomew isn't devoid of feeling, he just guards it very closely. He closes his hands around those feelings-- the guilt, the grief, the shame-- and he hides them. He bottles up the pain of seeing so many corpses, blankets the reality that they were people, locks away the feelings of inadequacy and helplessness, and he hides them. He hides them until he can peek at them, pull back the veil, and study them. He hides them until he's alone, and then he does this on his own.

Franz stares at those retrospective expressions and he tries to send encouragement. He knows that if he tries to reach out to Bartholomew in those moments, it'll break the spell and the other will be drawn away fro his musings. As much as he wants to help Bartholomew with those problems, he isn't allowed yet. Just like he isn't allowed to touch the urn on the china cabinet, or kiss Bartholomew during work, and just like he's not allowed to say "I love you" yet. Those are private. They belong to Bartholomew. The prospect that he'd ever need, or want, to share those things with anyone else might not have crossed his mind before. Franz wonders if it's crossed his mind now. He wonders if he's important enough yet to occupy Bartholomew's mind when it's wondering on private matters.

* * *

Something sets the hair on the back of his neck prickling, and Bartholomew knits his brows, whirling around. As expected, he finds Franz staring at him from across the look, a look of surprise flashing over the blond's features before he looks away guility and slinks off. Equal parts confusion and irritation nag at Bartholomew's mind. It's not the first time he's caught Franz staring at him while he's daydreaming. 

No, not daydreaming. Does Franz know--? 

Stupid. Turning away again, Bartholomew drags his hat off and runs his fingers through his hair. Franz can't know. He's been staring for a long time, long before Bartholomew began thinking...

_Don't take them away._

Does it bother him? Does it haunt him? Bartholomew hadn't been able to do anything at the time-- he'd seen how much it pained Franz back then. How pale he'd been for days afterwards, restless and tired. He should have done something, but he hadn't been able to. Now, nothing would stop him from comforting Franz when he needs it-- but it hadn't been the same back then. 

Does Franz resent him?

* * *

"Franz..."

They're sitting in the barracks, stripped down to casual wear and perched on the edge of a cot, shoulders touching. Sitting up from where he'd been pulling off his boots, Franz glances at the other. It startles him to see one of those expressions on Bartholomew's face. 

"What..?" He can hear the caution in his own voice and curses it. What if Bartholomew notices it, notices that he's letting Franz in too close? He can't spook Bartholomew away now--

Inhaling, Bartholomew dragged his hand through his hair, finally lifting his eyes towards Franz. "You don't think I'm--" Stopping, he looks down again, pinching his lower lip and tugging at it. Franz waits, uncertain of what his own answer will be. "... I'm sorry."

He hadn't expected that. Surprised, he hesitates, before asking, "For what?" 

Smiling mirthlessly, though not bitterly, Bartholomew shrugs. "I'm not sure..."

It occurs to Franz that Bartholomew doesn't get many opportunities to apologize. Has he ever stood over a corpse and stared at it, and seen the person it had once been, and apologized? Has he ever prayed and apologized? Has he ever apologized to the families he couldn't comfort?

This is more than just that. Bartholomew may not understand it himself-- hell, Franz doesn't entirely understand it-- but they don't have to. He feels it somewhere in his heart, between the ache and the fondness. 

Franz lays his hand over Bartholomew's on the mattress, twining his fingers between Bartholomew's and squeezing lightly. "It's alright."

Exhaling, Bartholomew looks up, studying his face. Franz isn't sure how he's supposed to look, so he doesn't change his expression. Evidently, Bartholomew is fine with what he finds there, and he chuckles, dropping his other hand from his mouth. "You don't know what I'm apologizing for."

"I know." Franz squeezes his fingers tighter, brows furrowing slightly with the kind of conviction that only comes from certainty. "It doesn't matter. It's alright."

The energy seems to leave Bartholomew all at once and his shoulders droop, gaze lowering to his lap. Several minutes of silence pass between them before Bartholomew squeezes back. He won't say 'thank you' out loud, but that's good enough for Franz.


End file.
